ninji

Anthony:

It doesn't matter where you go, or who you fuck. You are always still in my spirit. And that's what matters. Maybe it's like you're my brother. Maybe my son. My father. Paramour. Words elude me but your dear doe eyes and spirit, they are firmly enmeshed.

I missed you last night. I was talking to the barkeep about things. He told me, empathetically, I was "love starved.' Afraid to ask 'is it that obvious?' I instead, weakly agreed in my silence.

So, how will this end? Will there be a walking off into the sunset? Where will I be placed in this gallery? I'm curious. I have trained myself to savor every morsel of experience, most especially when it feels right. So I know it will tide me over 'till the next time.

Do you remember Japan? We resided in the cleanest, most pristine youth hostel. Everyday we bought small, brilliant little gifts for one another. I wondered what went on in your mind, as I'd bring you this sweet little pillow book and place it underneath your backpack, bought you an orange comb for your dear little boy hair from the vending machine.

Love trinkets such like these that were pawned off as cute. As kitsch.

I wondered what would become of us when we headed back to the States, and you returned to your hand-fashioned, somewhat more structured life. And I returned to my chaos.

Last night, the barkeep told me I was lovestarved. "Everyone," he told me, "is either lovestarved, or completely jaded."

"Where are you?" I asked him. He told me he was in between.

Anthony, dear, I wonder where that leaves you. In my mind, you are finally getting it. The sweet that you deserve.Drenched in lemon sweat. And the girl, she is lithe, and petite, and completely fun. Her energy is fresh, and optimistic. Open to you as you're diving into her clear, cool waters. Refreshed by her citrus.

In the face of my reverie, I'm not sure what to do here. Do I sink. Do I swim.

Do I call out to you, because I'm drowning.

My feelings for you don't change. It's not polite, however, for me to make them plain. It wouldn't be fair to either of us. Shall I learn to scuba dive, then? Shall I breathe of my own accord, underwater, like a superheroine, rapt and charmed by the palette of fishes that swim by? And sharks? Undercover flora and fauna that's so rare for any of us to see?

Wait for your return and ask about your sea legs?

My resillience is a marvel to me. My fascination with the boys and girls who can truly stick to their own chord, and key, without veering from their own, unique song...is fathomless. I don't have it.

More often than not, I'll find myself looking over my shoulder while the rest of the band plays the music that's provided for them--improvising within the meter, making it back to the beat on time, to the rest.

Me, I mix my metaphors.

Tell me, Anthony. Tell me how it was. What it is. You've got to come back to tell me tales of what it's like on the other side.

I'm thirsty for it.

Desirous.

Hungry for the earth's good replenishment.

Enjoy this, as you trace the latitude and the longitude of her. Remember her geography for her, would you? Become the cartographer for your newfound landscape, and tell me what it's like to charter this new place, newly discovered. Tell me what it's like to feel the dirt beneath your soft, bare feet. What it feels like to make shapes of angels rolling 'round in her grass. Surrendering to the idea that the world is big, and round, and wide, and that you've found your rightful place in it. In her. Make that sound of the ocean crashing against your rocks. Your shores. Tell me what the map of her world feels like. Would you? Would you tell it to me. Honest and alive. Would you help me feel it.

Yours in trust and in truth,

Cleopatra